


Coffee

by Ampithoe



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Simon Snow, Cozy, Customer Baz Pitch, Fluff, M/M, POV Alternating, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28263321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ampithoe/pseuds/Ampithoe
Summary: Simon is a barista who loves to make his customers smile. Baz is a customer who refuses to show a glimmer of interest or a hint of a smile to the handsome man who makes his tea.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 18
Kudos: 106
Collections: COE Winter 2020





	Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pjpg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjpg/gifts).



> I was thrilled to get [pjpg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjpg) as my recipient! I love her art style. She has given us so much cozy and cute Snowbaz art, so here is some cozy (and I hope cute, despite Grumpy Baz) fic for her. I really hope you like it!
> 
> A jillion thanks to [gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gampyre) for beta reading.

**Baz**

What a day. I have a paper to write, and I'd normally hole up in the flat until I finished it. But for some reason Fiona has chosen  _ now _ — when it's too wet and cold to open the windows to let fumes out, and I'm at my busiest — to have the place painted. It's all hustle and bustle and boxes and drop cloths and chemical smells. I've been sleeping at Dev and Niall's place to escape the fumes and disorder, but there's no chance of getting any work done there, not with Dev playing violent video games and taking breaks every half hour to try to needle me into joining him. (As if I would, even if I had the time.) (Vicarious explosions are not my notion of entertainment.)

So I gather up my laptop and my most important source books and trudge through the grey, wet, icy streets to Ebb's Coffeehouse. It's the nearest one, and if I weren't in such a foul mood, I'd admit that it feels homey. It's not the best choice, actually, because one of the baristas who works there is damnably distracting. He's got a broad smile and freckles and moles everywhere. (Well, everywhere that I can see, and I'll admit that I've spent too much time imagining more in the places I can't see.) It's like he's constantly drawing me in, but I'm always careful not to step too close. I put on my frostiest and most superior air with him because I'd rather be rejected for a facade than for my actual self.

So. I'd be better off at another shop. But I let the weather be my excuse for not going further afield, when I know it's just because I'm weak. For him.

**Simon**

It's the worst sort of winter weather today. I love snow, but this is rain that just dances on the edge of freezing. The ground is cold enough to make the pavement icy, and there's nasty wet slushy stuff in the gutters, and the wind gets everyone’s face wet and makes the cold really penetrate. I don't think we'll get many people in here today — who's going to want to walk through this stuff, even for our warm and cosy shop?

We've got it decorated for the holidays. We try not to make it too Christmasy as such. Ebb says she wants everyone to feel at home here. So we put out evergreens and candles (in a dozen different bright colours), but also a menorah I found in a thrift shop and some of those little Diwali lamps (Penny got them for me). We've stocked up on mulling spices and peppermint and chocolate and pumpkin, all the things that make for warm and festive drinks. I put some Celtic harp music on — not Christmas carols; I think a lot of people get sick of those, even though I love them.

We've been open for a couple of hours, and I've had a few customers, but no one who has stayed long. You might think they'd want to soak up the warmth, but I guess they're in a hurry to do whatever errand pulled them out of the house and then get back to their own place. I don't blame them. The shop is lovely this time of year, but I'd be so happy to be curled up on the couch next to Penny, sitting under a blanket and watching something light and frothy on the telly.

Well. I can do that tonight.

**Baz**

I get to the shop and of course it's the distracting barista who's working today. His name tag says “Simon” but I try to stay as impersonal as possible (which isn't very, unfortunately), even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

I set my bags down at the table farthest from the register and go up to order my drink. At some places that I go, I get my special pumpkin mocha breve (my own invention), and this would be a perfect day for it, but I never order it here. I don't want the illusion of warmth and sweetness from this impossible, unattainable Simon, just something ascetic that will help me keep my brain focused on work.

Of course, the puppyish man at the register slaps a huge customer service smile on his face — anything to get something in the tip jar, I suppose, since there's no way it could be for me. “An Earl Grey tea for Baz, am I right?” 

I nod brusquely. He may know my order, but that doesn't mean anything. Just that he's entirely too enthusiastic about his job.

As he's gathering up the cup and the little tea pot and the tea bag and assembling it all on a tray he asks “Are you getting into the holiday spirit yet?” I'm tempted to give him a Scrooge-y “Bah, humbug!” but that would be too playful, so I just grunt.

He pushes my little tray towards me and hands me my change with a smile. I drop the change in the tip jar — a matter of principle, not any desire to curry favour with him — and carry the tray silently to my table, where I open my laptop and begin typing. “From Brussels to London: Shifting Winds in Agricultural Regulation in the Post-Brexit Era.” I hope it will impress my instructor in Contemporary Issues in Political Economy; it's also a favour to my father, who's eager to know what to expect. I hope my speculations are of some use to him.

**Simon**

Well, I have a customer, and at least that gives me something to look at.

Something very nice to look at.

His name is Baz, which I know only because at busy times we take customers' names for their drinks. He's been coming in a fair amount lately. The only thing he ever wants is Earl Grey tea, no milk, no sugar, no lemon. I could almost swear he smells of bergamot. 

He's got grey eyes and this lovely, soft-looking black hair — usually it's swept back severely, but one time it was falling down loose, framing his face in loveliness, and I wanted nothing more than to run my fingers through it.

Not that he would ever let me.

He's so stiff and formal. Always alone, always with work to do. He's very busy with something today — a big pile of books, lots of papers, and referring to this, that, and the other thing while he types and types and types. 

I wish I could make his life a little softer, a little warmer.

Those eyes probably light up when he smiles.

That's all guesswork on my part, because I have never seen him smile, not once.

I like to make customers smile. It's part of what I think a coffee shop is for. (Ebb does, too.) Not just to make drinks, but to make a place where things are a little bit softer, a little bit cosier, where the hard things of life can be kept away for a short while.

So, I can usually make people smile. It takes different things with different people. Lots of folks, all it takes is a genuine smile at them. Other people need a little joke or a compliment or some teasing. I'm not above sneaking a chocolate onto someone's saucer if that's what it takes. I have a dozen little tricks.

None of it has worked with Baz.

**Baz**

I spend hours writing. I'm always aware of the freckled barista somewhere off back behind me. (I'm facing the other way in a vain attempt to avoid distraction.) I can hear him puttering behind the counter, and occasionally someone comes in for a drink and he gives them a cheery greeting and (I'm sure, though I'm not looking) a smile. He gives that to everyone. That's how I can tell it doesn't mean anything when he gives it to me.

I'm making progress on my paper. Hoof and mouth disease. Grading and inspection. Hygiene. Working conditions. 

I drink the dregs of my now-cold tea. I want more but I play willpower games with myself. I'll write one more page before I go up and order another pot. Wait fifteen more minutes. Trace the grain of the table. Stack my papers.

Enough. I take up the tray of used tea things. He beams at me. “Another one? You're working hard today.”

I nod, not speaking. Pay and go back to my table. Keep writing.

Try not to think about him.

It's like sharing a room with an open fire. You'd think it would be cosy, but I don't want to get burned.

**Simon**

Still no smile. He's a tough nut to crack, but I'm not going to give up. 

I think about what I could do for him. What might make him happy or improve his day.

He's been working hard, and he's not stopping. He must have a lot that he needs to get done. Penny's classes have been done for a week, but I guess at his uni things are still happening.

It's been hours now. Tea with nothing in it isn't a lot of fuel for a marathon like this. He's obviously a smart guy. I can see it in how focused he is, how many things he refers to as he works, how he sometimes looks thoughtful but never stymied. Not like me when I was trying to write papers. (I'm better at latte art and making people smile.) (Most people.)

I decide to make him something special. Something warm and cheerful, filled with good flavours. Something to drive away the cold and give him energy. It might not make him smile — maybe he just never does — but I can make him something good.

I get a cup and set to work. He's never ordered anything but tea, always Earl Grey. But this is going to be special. I make it up as I go along, something new and different. Ebb says I'm very intuitive about drinks. It's like I can feel what a person needs to make them feel good. 

I brew him an espresso and pour it into the cup. I think he probably likes sweets, even if he doesn't let himself have them often — he always takes an appreciative look at the pastry case while I'm assembling his tea things. So, in goes a dollop of chocolate ganache. And it needs a certain seasonal flair. I consider peppermint, but that doesn't feel right. I get out the tub of pumpkin pie mix and put in a big spoonful. Mix that all up.

Now the creamy goodness. I reach for the milk. I'm about to pour it into the pitcher for steaming when I think no, he needs something really rich and luxurious. A special pleasure. So I open the fridge again and grab the cream and add some of that as well. I steam the mixture and pour it carefully onto the drink, then take my time making an intricate fern pattern on the top. Perfect. 

I set the cup on a saucer and take the whole thing out to Baz's table. I stand there for a minute. I think he knows I'm there, but he's finishing his paragraph before he admits it or something. Stubborn git. 

At last he looks up.

“I made you something. I thought you could use a little more fuel than straight tea.” I set the drink down.

“What is it?”

I sit down — just perching on the edge of the chair, really. I don't want to look like I'm making myself at home in his space, but I want to see him better than I can from standing.

“A surprise on the house. Go ahead, try it.”

He looks at me for a moment and then, as if he's decided it's the fastest way to get rid of me, he lifts the cup and takes a sip.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What is this?” he asks, almost suspiciously.

“Just something I made up. I guess if you were going to give it an official name, it would be a...”

“Pumpkin mocha breve,” he interrupts.

“Yes! You must have a pretty refined palate to figure that out from one sip.”

“I didn't figure it out. I recognized it. It's my standard order — at a different coffee shop, one that's miles from here. I'm sure I've never ordered one at Ebb's. Is there some secret network of baristas, spreading the word on patrons' tastes?”

I  _ think _ he's kidding.

“No, I swear. It just seemed like — well, not what you needed, but maybe something that you could use right now. A pick-me-up for a cold day full of hard work.”

He takes another drink, deeper this time. “You're right, this is just the thing.”

And he smiles.


End file.
